“We are taxing your kindness, I fear,” said Margaret, as they prepared for the visit.
“Non, eet ees ze plaisir. I—I like your face,” and the impulsive little woman again grasped Margaret’s hand. “We must be friends, and friends take no thought of ze trouble of serving each ozair.”
“You have given the true meaning of friendship,” replied Margaret earnestly.
Lizzette Minaud’s house was a “box” indeed, not even as large as the one which seemed so small to Margaret and Elsie; but it was a marvel of neatness and taste. The oak floor of the salon, as in grandiose style Lizzette designated her sitting-room, was like a mirror in its capacity to reflect objects, and nearly as dangerous to walk upon. Here and there bright-colored rugs, knit by the expert fingers of the mistress, lay before couch, stove, and tables. The walls were a delicate cream tint, with dado and frieze composed of crimson, brown, and golden maple leaves delicately veined and shaded, each one the particular work of Lizzette. In response to the delighted exclamation of her visitors, she explained in perfect frankness that having little money and some skill, she had determined to decorate her home—bought with the savings of years—in as tasteful a design as she could achieve. She was rewarded with gratifying success, for the grouping of the leaves was so artistic and the coloring so perfect that nature seemed to be rivalled in the reproduction.
“You are an artist!” enthusiastically exclaimed Margaret.
“Non, non—only a Frenchwoman and a cook,” she answered with a characteristic shrug. “I haf all my life been cook for ze great families. In France first, in America many year since. I marry twelve year since, and my husband he go away when my Antoine but two year old. He ees here in zis room, and he will be so charmed to meet you.” As she finished speaking, she turned toward a little alcove and presented to view, what at first seemed a little child propped up on a couch. A second look, and it was at once discovered that the child was a hunch-backed lad of some ten years, with dwarfed and misshapen limbs that refused to support him. With that appealing gaze so often noted in the suffering and unfortunate, his dark eyes looked out from beneath a brow broad, smooth, and white. Rings of jet-black curls, a straight, delicate nose, and a mouth with lips thin and bloodless and downward curved, completed the cast of his features. But it would be impossible to reproduce in words the innate beauty of the smile that lit up his face or the sublimity of spirit which looked out of the dark eyes. Impulsive Elsie was on her knees beside him in a moment.
“You dear angel!” she exclaimed, picking up one of the thin, white hands and kissing it. “I shall love you, I know.”
“Everybody does. Everybody is so good,” said the lad simply. “You are good to come. I wanted to see you.”
“Eet ees true,” said Lizzette, “he would not rest until I had tried to make ze welcome. He ees sometimes lonesome when I go about ze work, but he ees always patient and always so kind. He ees un grand scholair, too. See, he read zis,” and Lizzette held up in triumph a well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare. “It is ze Anglais. He learn so fast, and he read Santine et Racine très bien. I go to school to mon enfant soon,” and the little mother patted the boy’s pale cheek in an effusion of pride and fondness. The lad glanced up lovingly and said quickly:
“Non, non. Ma mère has quicker eyes and more wisdom than Antoine. Is the supper ready? I am very hungry and want my wheel chair.”